Runaway
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: After Stiles gets in trouble for pulling a particularly wild prank, Sheriff Stilinski loses his temper. Stiles decides it would be best for both of them if he left home. But Stiles soon finds himself in grave danger, and discovers humans are the most dangerous predators of all. Set during Stiles' freshman year of high school. COMPLETE! {18,000 views & counting!}
1. Chapter 1: Impractical Jokes

_**Written in 7 chapters, this fic is set before the beginning of the series, and thus before Scott's werewolf powers and all that supernatural goodness.**_

 _ **Summary : Near the end of their freshman year, Stiles and Scott pull off a prank so glorious their names should be recorded in the jokester hall of fame. But when he gets in trouble for the prank, Stiles realizes there are serious consequences for his actions, especially between him and his dad. When Sheriff Stilinski loses his patience with his son, Stiles decides to take off for a few days, and finds himself in a dangerous situation.**_

 _ **Rated T (for Teen) for later chapters.**_

 _ **Enjoy! If you read, please review.**_

* * *

 _ **Runaway**_

 **Chapter One: Impractical Jokes**

"C'mon, Scott. It'll be awesome. Trust me."

"How come every time you say those words, I end up regretting it?"

Fifteen year old Stiles Stilinski spun the dial of his lock in one fluid motion, his long fingers nimble and familiar. He didn't even need to recite the combination under his breath anymore. "Don't be such a stickler, man," he declared, opening the locker door. "Live a little. Aren't you tired of being a nobody? This is going to rocket us into high school fame."

"Or get us suspended. My mom's stressed enough as it is."

Stiles dismissed his friend's concerns with a wave of his hand. "You worry too much. Besides, when have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?"

"Don't be a smart ass. Here, take this, would you?" Stiles pulled a bulging, black back-pack from his locker and shoved it at Scott. Scott tested its weight; it was remarkably light. He unzipped the top and peeked inside, brushing hair out of his eyes as he did. He could just discern plastic and white styrofoam before Stiles zipped the bag shut again. He glanced around to ensure no one had seen.

"What's in the bag?"

"You'll find out." Stiles waggled his eyebrows mischievously, an impish grin plastered on his face. He clapped a hand on his best friend's shoulder, and slammed his locker shut. "Relax, okay? This is going to be fun." They watched as Lydia Martin sauntered down the hallway, her hips swaying in time with the click of her high heels. Stiles looked after her longingly. "We're going to be legends."

Scott had no understanding of Stiles' grand scheme or purpose. He wasn't sure Stiles himself knew. There were several complicated elements to his prank, which included live animals, saran wrap, shaving cream, cherry jello, and four thousand paper cups. Stiles assured him the plan was genius; Scott called it chaos.

"We'll meet in front of the locker room, okay?" Stiles instructed, pausing in front of Scott's homeroom before they parted ways. "Remember, in order for this to work, we're gonna need the whole hour. You'll need to skip out on third period." Stiles eyed him knowingly.

"What?"

"Promise me you'll be there."

"We're going to get in so much trouble."

"Look, during recess, all you have to do is hide out in the bathroom until everyone's in class. This close to the end of term, teachers never take attendance."

"This is ridiculous."

"Just promise."

"Fine. Third period. I'll be there." Stiles grinned from ear to ear, and pumped his fist in the air. Glee was written all over his face.

"This is going to be awesome!"

 _Oh great,_ Scott thought, _what have I gotten myself into?_ He knew this wouldn't end well. But if they were going to go down, they may as well go down together – and have fun doing it. So he went along with Stiles' plan, like he always did. Like he knew he always would.

Halfway through third period, they realized an hour was not enough time to complete each element of Stiles' brilliant plan. They had successfully filled each shower head in the boys' locker room with jello, and most of the door knobs and thresholds in the main hallway had been greased with shaving cream and some weird slippery concoction Stiles had brought in plastic bottles. But they didn't have a good method for filling the paper cups with water – which was the entire point of the cups. They had intended to fill the entire hallway in front of the principal's office with the cups, but so far had only managed to cover several feet. He still didn't know what the saran wrap was for.

"This isn't going to work," Scott declared. "We should have snuck in last night and set everything up."

"Would you stop being such a pessimist? It'll be so much funnier this way. No one will be expecting it." Stiles checked his wrist watch and stood up. "Unfortunately, we're not going to get to the saran wrap. I need to meet the farm guy out in the parking lot now. You keep filling the cups. Ten minutes before the bell rings, clear out, okay? We don't want you getting caught."

"What will you be doing?"

Stiles smiled slyly, reached into his bag, and extracted what looked like three Beacon Hills High lacrosse jerseys, only smaller. Much smaller. The only players those would fit would have to be no bigger than fourth grade children. The jerseys were numbered 1, 2 and 4. "I'm going to finish the best part."

"How do you even get these things?"

"I know some guys."

"Yup, we're definitely getting suspended."

"Don't worry, Scotty boy. After this, everyone will know our names." Scott knew that by "everyone" Stiles meant Lydia specifically.

"In juvenile detention maybe."

"Hey," Stiles punched his shoulder playfully, "sarcasm is my thing. Just keep filling those cups." Stiles disappeared, and Scott sighed. He wondered how his best friend always managed to suck him into these kind of things.

It was a long, tedious, and boring process without Stiles there to help him. But for the next twenty minutes Scott continued to place the cups in rows down the hallway. He had figured out that by only half filling them, he could work faster and place more cups, while still accomplishing the same purpose as filling them to the brim. This was working so well that he had almost filled the entire hallway when his phone chirped.

A text from Stiles read: GO TIME. GET IN POSITION. NOW.

Scott abandoned the remainder of the empty cups, scattering them on the floor, grabbed his book-bag, and ran for the side entrance. He opened the door wide, and Stiles – hair and shirt dishevelled, his face slick with sweat – herded three jersey-clad pigs into the school just as the bell rang. The already timid swine panicked at the loud noise and the sudden crowds that started to pour from doorways left and right. They squealed frightfully and took off in separate directions. Scott hadn't realized pigs could run so fast.

Almost immediately, the screaming started. Teachers burst from classrooms, slipping on the mess in front of their doors, trying to grab the knobs for support, only to find their hands slip right off. Mr. Harris landed in a pile of shaving cream, squishing it down the back of his suit jacket. Students and staff were running and yelling, chasing after the pigs. Coach was blowing his whistle – as usual – and commanding the seniors from the lacrosse team to grab the animals.

The silky material of the jerseys made them difficult to catch. Stiles and Scott were roaring with laughter, watching the chaos unfold in front of them. Scott felt a strange pride in his friend, and was delighted to have been part of such a hilarious joke. Stiles put an arm across Scott's shoulders and led him towards the principal's office. "Let's see how Principal Thomas is dealing with his predicament, shall we?"

They heard the yelling before they even reached the hallway. Principal Thomas was soaked to the ankles, a dozen spilled cups at his feet. One of the pigs darted past them just as the boys reached the office. They watched in hysterics as Thomas plowed through the remaining cups, sending them flying in all directions, as he chased the pig. "Someone grab that pig!" he shouted, slipping in a puddle and landing on his backside. "Susan!" he screamed at his secretary, who was cowering in the doorway of the office, her hand covering her mouth. "Get the janitor here, now! And call animal control! Call the police! Call a butcher! Get someone here now! I want these pigs out of my school!"

Stiles was laughing so hard he was crying. He wiped a few stray tears from his eyes, and offered his fist to Scott for a congratulatory bump. Scott touched it with his fist good-naturedly. "You, my friend, are a genius."

"Why, yes. Yes, I am. We'd better get to class, so we don't look suspicious."

Teachers were struggling to get students calmed down and into classrooms. Any faculty members with free periods were called to pig duty, along with a few seniors, the janitors, and the mousy librarian who spoke only in whispers. An animal catcher had arrived, with nets in tow. Scott and Stiles were still laughing when they took their seats in Math.

"We're home free," Stiles whispered, opening his textbook to page 394. "No one ever takes any notice of freshmen. The teachers will never know it was us." Scott was beginning to think he was right. They had gotten away with it; they were going to be okay; they were the best pranksters in the history of Beacon Hills. He was starting to relax and enjoy the triumph of their prank when the classroom door opened.

"Stiles Stilinski." Mr. Thomas was red faced and wet. The veins in his neck were jutting out, throbbing with each pulse of his already elevated blood pressure. He didn't even acknowledge their teacher, but searched the students' faces until he found Stiles. "My office. Now."

Stiles glanced at Scott and shrugged, but he could see the anxiety creeping into his friend's eyes. _Should I come with you?_ Scott asked with a look, but Stiles shook his head. They didn't know yet how much the principal knew. It could be a false alarm. Stiles stood, picked up his belongings, and followed the principal out. Everywhere he looked, he could see remnants of his prank: traces of shaving cream and puddles, tiny piggy tracks. He wondered how many of his bacon buddies were still on the loose. He smiled to himself, making sure Thomas didn't see. He had no regrets.

The principal didn't say anything until they were seated in his office. Thomas perched on the edge of his desk, his massive bulk inches from Stiles. "You probably think you're pretty clever, don't you Stilinski?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

The man's cheek twitched as he tried to keep a handle on his emotions. "I don't know how you did it, I don't know why – and I don't care. I'm a reasonable man, I have a sense of humour. I will tolerate a few practical jokes now and again. But this, _this_ was complete anarchy. Those pigs made a complete zoo out of my school. I will _not_ indulge something of this calibre. Make no mistake: I don't care how funny you think it was; I don't care that you're a freshman; I don't care if this is your first offence. I _don't care_ that your father is sheriff. Action needs to be taken. You need to be punished."

"With all due respect, _sir,_ you're making a lot of assertions considering you can't prove I did this."

Principal Thomas's lips curled in a Grinch-esque smile. "I'll ignore your smug insubordination, but only because I can, without a doubt," he leaned forward, "prove you were behind this." Stiles couldn't keep the surprise off his face, momentarily letting his composure slide. Thomas chuckled, taking this as an admission of guilt. "Mrs Hatfield was outside in her car near the end of third period. And whom did she happen to see, but _you_?"

Stiles was prepared this time. He swallowed his momentary panic, and when he spoke next, he tried to regain the upper-hand: "Outside sneaking a cigarette again, was she?" He smirked. "Smoking is a really disgusting habit, and I believe it's prohibited on school grounds. You should talk to her about that."

The principal's eyes narrowed. "The fact remains, Mr. Stilinski, that you were seen outside with a suspicious character, squeezing pigs into lacrosse jerseys."

"Quite the image, isn't it, Principal Thomas?"

"There's only one problem with this little image: you couldn't have done this on your own. I don't care who you got those pigs from, but there is no way you had time to get those pigs _and_ create the soggy booby-trap in front of my office."

"Maybe I'm just that good."

"Or maybe you just have friends, as shocking as that seems. Give me their names, and I'll consider giving you a more lenient punishment."

"And share all the credit?"

"Laugh now, boy. I have a feeling you won't be laughing in a minute." As if on cue, someone knocked on the office door. The principal smiled coolly. "Come in!" Without turning to look, Stiles already knew who he would find standing in the doorway, wearing his police uniform, hand hovering over his gun holster. "Ah, Sheriff Stilinski."

His father looked tired and impatient. He collapsed heavily into the chair beside his son, but didn't speak to him.

"Now, Stiles," Thomas continued. "I'd like you to consider my question again, before you answer. Who helped you pull off this prank?" Stiles shifted awkwardly, and tried to ignore his father, who fixed him with a parental stare.

"No one," he responded, his voice even. "I did it alone."

"Very well," the principal sighed, but Stiles knew the man was enjoying himself. "Stiles Stilinski, effective immediately, you are suspended."

 **To Be Continued...**


	2. Chapter 2: Consequences

**Chapter Two: Consequences**

"Principal Thomas, please be reasonable," Sheriff Stilinski insisted. "There are only two weeks of school left before summer vacation, and this is Stiles' first major offence."

"He let loose pigs in my school, Sheriff."

"I'm not telling you not to punish him, because, believe me, he needs to be reprimanded." He fixed a steely gaze on his son, and Stiles sunk deeper into his chair. "I just think suspension this late in the term would be detrimental to his schooling. What about all his final assignments?"

"All final assignments not yet handed in will be marked 'incomplete.' Summer school may prove to be necessary for Stiles to pass all his courses."

"What?" Stiles groaned.

"Those are the consequences. Perhaps you should have considered what would happen, _before_ you decided to wreak havoc in my school." The principal stood and walked around his desk.

"Principal Thomas, please –"

"That is my final decision, Sheriff Stilinski. I realize it must be difficult, raising a teenager as a single parent, but perhaps if Stiles received more guidance and attention at _home_ he wouldn't feel the need to act out at school. Perhaps if you spent more time with your son, worked less. There's obviously a conflict of values occurring here. It would be tragically ironic, wouldn't it, if the sheriff's son joined the ranks of juvenile delinquent in one of California's fine detention centers? I know it must be difficult without your wife, but I think Stiles' behavior suffers without a female presence in his life. This lack, combined with your long work-day absences, have left Stiles without a necessary authority figure at home. Without a parent." The principal held up his hands. "I'm not trying to tell you how to raise your son," although he clearly was, "and I'm not saying I understand how it feels to be in your position," though he had certainly implied as much. "I'm just saying, a little discipline can go a long way. My father always said, 'rule with the hand and not the heart, if you want children to respect you.' I'm sure you have your own ideas on parenting, but perhaps if you showed the same interest in your son that you do in your cases, we wouldn't be sitting here having this discussion." Stiles' face flushed, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. He waited for his father to say something, to defend himself, but his father was silent. Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but Principal Thomas interrupted loudly, "You can take your son home now, Sheriff Stilinski. He may clean out his locker for the summer, then please vacate the premises as soon as possible."

Sheriff Stilinski rose stiffly from his chair. _Here it comes,_ Stiles thought, waiting for his father to unleash a tirade in his honor. But he was stony and silent. Stiles didn't understand this new muteness. His father was always quick to share his opinion or offer a snide remark – he had inherited his sarcasm from his father – so why wasn't he speaking now?

Stiles followed his father out of the principal's office, but he paused at the door, intent on getting in one final quip. "Did you check the jerseys on the pigs, Principal Thomas? I numbered them specially, to help you find _all_ of them."

Stiles left without further explanation. He smiled to himself as he heard the principal shout, "Susan! What were the numbers on those jerseys? One, two, four?! There's still one pig running around the school!" He felt satisfied knowing it would be hours before the principal figured out there had, in fact, been only three pigs.

Sheriff Stilinski was waiting near a nest of lockers, tapping his foot impatiently. Stiles jerked his thumb in the opposite direction. "Mine is actually down this way." His father followed at his heels. He still had not broken his eerie silence. It was really starting to freak Stiles out. He had expected yelling, agitation, and vocal disappointment, not this quiet, seething anger. He could handle his father being mad; he could reason with shouting and frustration; with a correctly timed word or joke, he had learned how to defuse his father's displeasure. But he had no experience with this – the unsettling and deceptive quiet before the storm.

The tension between them was so thick, it was almost tangible.

Stiles struggled to find the right words, but his voice failed him.

As Stiles fumbled with his combination, his father acted as sentry beside his locker. He stood with his hands on his hips, spying up and down the hallway, the fingers over his gun holster twitching slightly. He reminded Stiles of the nervous prison guards he'd seen on television. _What does that make me?_ he wondered.

"Did they call you at work?" Stiles asked, as he shoveled loose papers and textbooks into his bag.

"Mmhmm."

"Were you...were you out on a call?"

"Mmhmm."

"Oh." More like, _uh oh._ Stiles knew how much his father hated being bothered when he was in the middle of a case. He finished cleaning out his locker in silence. When he had finished, his father turned sharply on his heel, and walked a straight and rapid line towards the main entrance.

"I didn't think they'd call you," Stiles offered, racing to keep up with his father's long strides.

"What _did_ you think was going to happen, Stiles?"

They exited the building, stepping into the warm California sunshine. The air smelled clean and fresh, with just a hint of the flowers the gardener had meticulously been nurturing in rows near the flagpole. It was a beautiful day. Stiles could see the cruiser parked off to the side, out of the way of buses and incoming traffic. Hidden from view, so as not to draw attention to itself. _It's a trap,_ he thought. _Don't answer. There's no right answer to this question._

"Well?" Sheriff Stilinski retrieved his keys from his front pocket. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, Dad. I thought it would be funny. I didn't think–"

"Of course you didn't! You never think! You just do whatever comes to mind, whatever whim suits you at the time, without any regard for consequences or how it might affect others!"

"It was just a joke," Stiles muttered meekly. They had reached the bicycle rack, and he bent low, trying to undo the chain fastened to his bike. But he was trembling under his father's accusations. He couldn't get the damned thing free.

" _Everything_ is a joke to you. You don't take anything seriously – school, homework, chores. Do you realize how embarrassing it is for me, having to explain to my deputies and the _district attorney_ that I need to leave because my son is in trouble at school? And what do you think that call sounded like? The secretary was so distraught, I didn't know what was wrong. She was ranting and raving about wild animals and flooding, saying you were involved. Jesus, I thought something had happened to you. But it turns out you're the one _causing_ all the mayhem. Can't you get that damned bike unlocked already?"

"I can't seem to get the lock –"

"Oh, for Pete's sake. Move." Sheriff Stilinski grabbed his son's bicep and hauled him off the ground. Then he leaned over the bicycle, and tried to loosen it himself. He grabbed the seat and handlebars and yanked upward, but the bike was held fast. "Damn it," he swore, and kicked the back tire.

"Dad, stop –"

"Get in the cruiser."

"But what about my bike?"

"I said, get in the car."

"But, my bike –"

"Leave it," the sheriff panted out the words, his nostrils flaring.

Stiles had never seen his father so furious. He should have known better than to push, but he was too stubborn to back down. He could feel his own temper rising within him. "I'm not leaving my bike. It's the only transportation I have. Can't you just wait until I –"

Before Stiles could register what was happening, his father's open palm connected painfully with the side of his face. The sound of flesh hitting flesh made his stomach lurch, as his head snapped to the side under the force of the slap. Stiles' hand flew to his red cheek, and he stared at his father, his eyes wide and wet. Astonishment overshadowed the pain. A million emotions swelled inside his chest. The strongest among them was sadness. His father had _never,_ ever hit him before. Not in his entire fifteen years in existence. If you had asked Stiles an hour earlier if he thought his dad would ever hit him, he would have answered "never in a billion years."

Now he stared at his father as if he were a stranger.

Sheriff Stilinski's shock at what he had just done was not yet so great as to appease his anger. "Get in the car," he repeated flatly.

Stiles obeyed without complaint.

Neither of them spoke during the ride home. The only sounds in the car the murmuring of static over the police radio and Stiles' nearly imperceptible crying. Stiles stared out the window, watching the familiar streets pass before him. Everything looked different somehow, and it seemed strange to him that such a small act – inconsequential in the fabric of time and space – could affect him so deeply.

Whenever they passed under the shade of trees, their leafy marquees reaching high above power lines and shielding the road below, Stiles would catch a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass. His cheek had stopped hurting, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from crying. He hated it. He was acting like a little child. He wanted to be strong, prove to his father he could be mature and indifferent, that he could be serious, but his heart ached in a way he couldn't describe. Something inside him felt broken – jagged edges and shards slashing and tearing at everything he thought he knew.

If Sheriff Stilinski knew his son was crying, he didn't let on.

When they pulled up in front of their house, Sheriff Stilinski put the cruiser in park, but left the engine idling. "You can text Scott, and ask him to bring your bike home for you. If he can't do it, I'll pick it up on my way home from work. Don't leave the house. No TV. No computer. You're grounded."

"Fine." Stiles rubbed fiercely at his eyes, and yanked open the passenger side door.

"Do not leave this house. Do you hear me, Stiles? You're not to go anywhere."

"I heard you, _Dad,_ " Stiles retorted, a cutting, rebellious tone in his voice. He slammed the door shut, before his father could say another word, and stomped towards the front door. For the first time in his life, he felt something akin to hatred for his father.

He grappled with the keys in his hands, his frustration increasing. His dramatic exit was being ruined because he couldn't get the door unlocked. When he finally got inside, he slammed it for emphasis, the windows in the front room trembling in their panes. He knocked over the coat rack for good measure. He thundered up the stairs, into his room, releasing a steady shriek of expletives, before flopping down on his bed.

His earlier shock and sadness had been replaced by an anger so raw and intense, he could feel it in every part of his being. Where did his father get off saying the things he had? Why hadn't he even given him a chance to explain? It was just a joke! Why couldn't he see that? It was supposed to be funny. Why hadn't he tried harder to keep Stiles from being suspended? And why hadn't he said told off Principal Thomas? How could his father let that pompous wind-bag get away with saying the crap he had?

Stiles didn't want to get stuck in summer school, while his friends spent their days lazing around in the sun, drinking Pepsi and generally enjoying their youth. It wasn't fair. Nothing about this situation was fair. And now he'd be forced to spend the two weeks before summer vacation with his dad.

Stiles rummaged in his pocket for his phone and texted Scott: SUMMER VACAY OFFICIALLY STARTS NOW. NEED U TO BRING MY BIKE TO MY PLACE AFTER SCHOOL. DONT WORRY: UR IN THE CLEAR. WILL TALK WHEN U GET HERE.

Sheriff Stilinski watched his son storm into the house, and listened as he crashed through it. He'd have to talk to him later about learning how to properly vent his anger, if he didn't think having that discussion would make him an absolute hypocrite. He waited until he saw his son's silhouette in his bedroom window before pulling away from the curb. Guilt was forming in the pit of his stomach, oppressive and demanding. But he ignored it, swallowed his feelings, and pushed Stiles from his mind. He couldn't think about him right now, or he wouldn't get anything done. He returned to work, irksome and irritable, dreading what he would have to deal with when he got home.

It has been said that pride is the deadliest of the seven sins. Unfortunately, father and son both had an excess of it.

If Stiles had admitted to the chaos his prank had created, if he had showed remorse for the trouble he had caused, perhaps he could have stifled the tide of his father's wrath. If Sheriff Stilinski had taken a moment to realize that the person he was truly mad at wasn't Stiles, but himself, perhaps he would never have raised a hand to his son. If Stiles had been honest with his father, and told him what he was feeling and thinking, if he had said in the principal's office that none of those things Thomas said were true; if Sheriff Stilinski had humbled himself enough to apologize right away, as soon as he saw the terrible hurt in his son's eyes, and blown off work so he and Stiles could talk together; then perhaps what followed next could have been avoided, and saved both of them a lot of heartache.

 _ **TBC...**_


	3. Chapter 3: Run

_**If you read, please remember to leave a review!  
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy.**_

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 **Chapter Three: Run**

As luck would have it, Scott had slept through his alarm that morning, and had almost been late for school. The result of this was: instead of riding his bike with Stiles, like he normally would, his mother had dropped him off before her shift, with the assumption that he walk home after school. It was an unpleasant surprise to hear that Stiles had been suspended for a prank they had both been involved in (even if Stiles _had_ masterminded it), and Scott couldn't help feeling guilty that he was getting away with it, while Stiles was being punished. But, at the same time, part of Scott felt immensely relieved he would not share in Stiles' suspension, and was more than happy to take Stiles' bike home for him. It would significantly reduce the amount of time it would take him to get home after school, and it really was the least he could do.

There were still two hours before the end of school – plus the time it would take Scott to bike to his house – and Stiles thought he could go crazy waiting. Boredom made everything worse. He had too much time to think and brood, his thoughts replaying Thomas' words and his father's outburst over and over, until it all became twisted in his mind. Anger, sadness, and hurt festered in his heart, but he was too close to the situation to be able to discern which emotion was connected to which set of circumstances. Was he angrier at his dad for hitting him or for not listening to him? Was he upset because the slap had caused him (minor) physical pain, or because the man he trusted most in the world had been the one who hurt him?

Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he really was the terrible son Principal Thomas made him out to be. He hoped that wasn't true. He didn't mean to cause trouble or be a burden. He loved and revered his father. Since his mother had died, his father had become his entire world. He had never wanted to grow up to be like anyone but him. He not only respected, but admired the work his father did, his dedication and his intelligence, his refusal to give up, his genuine concern for the people in their community.

He and his father had always been close. Or, at least, they _had_ been, until this afternoon.

He knew they weren't perfect, but he and his father had always shared a close and loving bond. A bond made stronger by their mutual grief and the need to take care of each other. From his viewpoint, he had a better relationship with his dad than most teenagers his age. But maybe there were problems in their relationship he had never noticed before. Flaws and issues, holes and cracks, he couldn't see, but other people could. People like Principal Thomas.

Stiles covered his ears with his palms, applying pressure to the sides of his head. The only sound in the room was that of his breathing, but the thoughts in his head were so loud, they seemed audible. He wanted them to shut up, all the maybes and the doubts. _Shut up!_ The day's events were mutilating his memories, adding retrospective insights he didn't want. Filling in gaps with Thomas's words.

Sure, Sheriff Stilinski worked a lot, but he kept food on the table, a roof over their heads. His dad _saved_ people. But was it enough? His father always looked so tired, and Stiles knew his blood pressure was high. The doctor had warned him about it on numerous occasions. He didn't eat right, and he didn't get enough sleep at night. Stiles had assumed that these things were mostly due to his father being overworked and under-payed. _But what if,_ he thought, _I'm actually the reason my father looks older than he is? What if I'm what's slowly killing my dad, wearing him down until there's nothing left? Maybe I'm a burden, and he just doesn't want to say anything. I wish he didn't have to work so hard...but maybe he needs the time away from me. Maybe Dad and I aren't good for each other. Maybe our relationship is broken beyond repair, has been for a long time, and today is just a symptom of that. Soon we'll grow to resent each other. I'll end up hating him, and he'll regret ever having me. Maybe he already does. Maybe I'm the thing that's holding him back. They say "familiarity breeds contempt," whoever "they" are. Maybe that's true. We're stuck together all the time. It seems everywhere I go, there he is, there's his shadow. Maybe what we need is some space. We need time apart to figure out what we want, what we feel. That sounds like I'm breaking up with my dad, which is weird, but maybe it's like that in a way. We need to take a break, a breather. Figure out if living together is the best thing for both of us. Or if..._

But he didn't want to consider the alternative.

Stiles needed to do something to get his mind off everything. Normally he'd watch television or surf the Internet, but his father had grounded him from both. _He's not going to know,_ Stiles thought. His father wasn't home, wouldn't be home for hours. He'd never know. He had no way of knowing. In the end, Sheriff Stilinski was basing the conditions of his grounding on trust; he _trusted_ Stiles to abide by his rules. A fact not entirely lost on Stiles, though he didn't recognize what this meant. His laptop lay on his desk, the sleep light blinking seductively. _He'd never know._ But Stiles couldn't bring himself to do it. No matter how upset he was, he wouldn't disobey his father.

At least not when it came to something this trivial.

Music! The idea came to him suddenly. His father hadn't banned him from using his iPod. Music, played at ear-splitting volumes he would regret later in life, was exactly what he needed to drown out the thoughts in his head. So he dug out some headphones, placed them over his ears, and – despite the fact they were totally old-school millennium – blasted his Linkin Park playlist. He had always enjoyed how their alternative rock melodies and angsty lyrics had spoken to his teenage hormones, but now as he listened to the words, he heard his father in every song.

Scott pulled into his yard at precisely 3:37. In the space between songs, Stiles heard the gravel crunching under the tires of his bike. Scott entered without knocking and came up to Stiles' room. His friend was lying on his bed. Stiles removed his headphones, and Scott tossed him his helmet.

Scott didn't know what he should say. Should be bring up the topic of suspension? Should he thank Stiles for not ratting him out? Was that something you even said aloud? He pulled out the desk chair and sat down. He was spared the duty of speaking first, when Stiles jumped up and immediately asked, "What's everyone saying? Did they think it was awesome? Are we heroes?"

Scott shook his head. "It completely backfired. A bunch of guys from the lacrosse team took the credit. They said it was their idea for a senior prank. Everyone believes them."

"Are you kidding me? But I was suspended!"

Scott shrugged; he could see the excitement being extinguished in his friend's caramel-colored eyes, replaced by a secret gloom he didn't understand. "We're nobodies, Stiles. No one knows or cares who we are."

"What a failure." Stiles sank heavily onto his bed, and released a melancholy sigh. He stared out his window at the blue sky, the sun golden and bright, promising a beautiful twilight. He realized suddenly the long two weeks he had before him. He had been overly-optimistic to hope the suspension would amount to an early summer vacation; in reality it was a prison sentence. He was grounded, confined. How was he going to fix this mess? No one would ever believe he had been the mastermind behind the prank. He'd never be able to convince them otherwise. And, to top it all off, he'd probably be spending his time sitting in the sheriff's station under the watchful eye of his father. He didn't think he'd be able to handle it. His father was the last person he wanted to see.

This suspension was turning into hell.

 _It was all for nothing._ The suspension, the eighty bucks he'd forked out for pig rental and supplies, his father's temper and crushing disappointment in him – it had all been pointless, meaningless, worthless!

All he had wanted was to finally be somebody. To be his own person, not just the Sheriff's son. Stiles Stilinski – remarkable wit, prankster extraordinaire, and perfect boyfriend material – and not just that kid with the funny name no one could pronounce.

His spotless school record and, even worse, his relationship with his dad were in the toilet _for nothing._

It was more than he could take.

Stiles suddenly jumped up and grabbed his back-pack. He turned it upside down, dumping books, papers, and pencils onto his bed; his entire freshman year amounted to no more than a lumpy heap. He started racing around his room, collecting random items and articles of clothing – a sweater, his phone charger, some socks, a toothbrush, his pillow, his iPod and cellphone – and shoving them inside. He dropped to his knees, and rummaged under his bed for a tattered old sleeping bag.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking a vacation."

"What? Right now?"

"Why not? Now or never. It's not like I don't have the time." Stiles grabbed an old metal jar off his desk and dumped its contents – $30.58 in change and small bills – into his palm and pocketed it. "I need to get away from this town. From my dad. I've lived in California my whole life, but I've never seen the ocean. Isn't that bizarre? I could count on one hand the number of times I've been out of Beacon Hills. I think I'll go to the coast for a few days. Clear my head. Check out some beach babes."

"Stiles, wait. Woah. Stop. Stiles." Scott grabbed his friend's arm, halting him in his mad preparations. "Stop. Do you hear yourself? This is crazy. Where is all this coming from?"

Stiles shrugged off his grip. "Maybe this is exactly what I need."

"You're not thinking this through. Where would you stay? What about food and money? Where would you go, and _how_ the hell are you going to get there?"

Stiles grabbed his bicycle helmet off the bed. "Since I don't have my license yet, I'll have to use my other set of wheels."

"What about everything else?"

"I'll figure it out. Don't I always have a plan?" Stiles fastened his helmet on his head, hoisted his bag over his shoulder, and left his room. He forced himself not to look back. He knew if he did, he'd be tempted to stay. He'd give in to the familiar comforts of home and habit.

Scott was at his side. "Stiles, this isn't you. You can be impulsive and reckless, but you're not stupid. What's going on? You can tell me."

They paused at the bottom of the stairs. Stiles looked at his friend. Scott's lips were pulled down in an unattractive frown. He could tell him. He could confess every last dirty detail about Principal Thomas' office and his father hitting him. Scott was his best friend. If there was anyone who would listen, it was him.

But, no, he couldn't tell him. Because, despite what had happened, the desire to protect his dad outweighed everything else. "Listen, dude, don't worry. I just need a few days alone, okay?"

"What about your dad?"

"This will be good for him. A vacation for both of us."

"Stiles."

"Scott."

"You can't do this. It's not safe."

"I'll be fine."

"You at least need to tell your dad."

"Fine, I'll leave him a note or something." Stiles went to the kitchen, took an old grocery list off the fridge, and wrote on the back: DAD, I KNOW YOU TOLD ME NOT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE, BUT SOME TIME APART WILL BE GOOD FOR BOTH OF US. DONT WORRY. I'LL CALL YOU TO LET YOU KNOW I'M SAFE. ~STILES.

"Is that all?" Scott asked, reading over his shoulder.

"Yes." He paused a moment, and quickly added, "PS: I'M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING." He left the note on the counter, tucked under a coffee mug his father had left out that morning.

"I don't like this," Scott said. "I can't let you do it."

"You can and you will. If you've ever been my friend, you'll let me go." Stiles fixed him with a stare so intense, it rendered Scott speechless. "And you need to promise me you won't call my dad. Let him find the note when he gets home from work, and if he asks you about it, you never saw me okay? Promise me you won't tell anyone where I'm going. Not even your mom."

"Stiles, I don't-"

"Just promise me, Scott!"

"Alright. I promise." Stiles locked the front door behind them. He contemplated the keys in his hand briefly.

"Take them with you," Scott suggested, seeing the look in his friend's eyes. "So you can always come home." Stiles nodded, closed his fist over the keys, and shoved them in his front pocket. Scott was glad that in this, at least, Stiles listened to him.

Stiles straddled his bike, and lifted the kickstand. He gave Scott a thumbs-up and a lopsided grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Here we go, off on a grand adventure!" He put his feet on the pedals, and Scott knew this was his last chance to speak.

But the words caught in his throat. "Be careful," was all he said.

"Don't worry, Scotty, I'll be seeing you soon."

Scott watched his best friend disappear down the street, his figure growing smaller and smaller until he vanished altogether. Scott felt like there was a giant hole widening in his stomach. He knew he'd made a mistake.

 **_TEENWOLF_**

Scott spent the next four hours arguing with himself. He couldn't get rid of the feeling that he should have tried harder to stop Stiles, and he was feeling the weight of his promise crashing upon him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a half empty glass of Pepsi and a cold piece of pizza in front of him, when his mother came in. She deposited her purse and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. She filled it with water from the faucet and took a long drink.

"You're home early."

"Slow night. But it's nice to see you too," she laughed. "How was school?"

"Fine."

"Just fine? I thought pigs running wild in the school would have made the day a little more exciting?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Sheriff Stilinski happened in this afternoon for some patient information for a case he's working on. He told me Stiles was suspended. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you?"

He could feel her eyes on the back of his head. "No."

"I just thought you might, with Stiles being your _best friend_ and all. The sheriff seemed pretty upset actually, even more than usual." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "I hope everything's okay."

"Yeah."

"You realize this means you're grounded, right?"

"Okay."

"What? No arguments? No pleading? What's with you? You're quiet tonight." Melissa put her hand on his shoulder, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "You feel warm." She pressed her hand to his brow and frowned. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine."

"Scott," she pulled out the chair beside him and sat down. "You are a terrible liar, especially with me. I'm your mother; I have a built-in radar. I can tell something's wrong." Her eyes searched his face. He looked down at his untouched food. Melissa reached out and took his hand in hers. "Is it Stiles? Did something happen between you two?"

Scott figured the safest tactic was silence.

"Did something happen between him and his dad? Where is he? Is he alright?"

Scott shrugged. He was trying to play it cool, but he could feel his body beginning to betray him. His eyes were misty, and he was trembling slightly. He knew his mother could see. The truth was he didn't know if Stiles was alright, and that scared him.

"Honey, where is he? Where is Stiles?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie, Scott."

He didn't want to lie to her. "Mom, I can't tell you."

"Because you don't know where he is?"

"I just...I can't."

"Why? Why can't you tell me?"

"I promised." He was close to breaking now. His shoulders shook with the effort, as he tried to hold it together. He wished his mom would just let it drop. He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't want to break Stiles' trust. Stiles, damn him. Why hadn't he listened to reason?

"Baby, listen. Listen to me." Melissa caressed his cheek with her free hand, and made him look at her. "Do you remember what I told you about secrets when you were a little boy? Sometimes a promise needs to be broken, if someone could be in danger. If you know where Stiles is, and you know without a doubt that he's safe, and he'll stay that way, then fine. _But_ if there is any possibility at all that Stiles could be in trouble, you need to tell me, okay? Do you understand?"

Scott nodded.

"Is Stiles safe?"

"I don't know."

Melissa's heart clenched in fear, but she kept her voice steady and calm, "Scott, where is Stiles? Where is he right now?"

Scott held his mother's gaze. He could see himself reflected in her wide eyes. He knew she was as worried about Stiles as he was. That made it easier to say, "I'm not sure exactly. I just know where he's headed. He ran away from home."

Scott told her everything, starting with the prank at the school – downplaying his own involvement, of course – and ending with his promise and watching Stiles bike away. Melissa listened without interruption, but Scott could see her growing increasingly frantic. "It's getting dark," she commented. The sun had already started to descend over the horizon, casting its pink and orange rays as a goodnight to the world. Instead of being beautiful, it was strangely dark and ominous, as if the sun was saying goodbye to any hope of finding Stiles without its light. "The sheriff said he would be working late tonight. He doesn't know yet. We need to call him right now."

"Wait, Mom. Let me call Stiles first. Let me tell him before we call his dad."

"Alright."

Scott dialed Stiles' cell number. It rang once, twice, eight times before going to voice-mail. Maybe Stiles was on the move, and hadn't been able to answer. He tried again. This time it went straight to voice-mail. Melissa was already dialing the sheriff's station from the landline. Scott could feel bile and panic rising in his throat. "He's not answering."

 _ **TBC...**_


	4. Chapter 4: Whiskey Reverie

**Chapter Four: Whiskey Reverie**

It was the longest day in history. Or at least it felt like it to Sheriff Stilinski - and the day wasn't over yet.

All morning he had been working on a complicated drug and attempted murder case. Sloppily organized reports by some rookie cops and improper acquisition procedures threatened to throw the whole case out the window. District Attorney Barry Donaghue had been breathing down his neck all afternoon, badgering him to find additional evidence and witnesses, or else he'd have to grant a local drug dealer legal immunity in exchange for testimony. Neither of them wanted that, especially Stilinski, who had arrested the dealer on charges of assaulting a minor. A high school junior who had been hospitalized with a collapsed lung and several broken ribs. A boy who could have easily been his own son.

No, Sheriff Stilinski would not let the dealer walk. He'd clean up this mess, even though it hadn't been his screw-up in the first place.

Then, to make matters worse, after having to leave work for an hour to take Stiles home from school because of his suspension, a couple of federal agents showed up. A thirty-something man with a professional demeanor and strong handshake, and his partner, a pretty and friendly woman who belonged in an ad for _Better Homes and Gardens._ The pair were tracking a known serial killer, and believed he may have recently passed through Beacon Hills. They showed him photos and police reports, and provided him with lengthy descriptions. The alleged crimes made him nauseous, and he was thankful he hadn't seen or heard of any such man. But he promised to keep an eye open and welcomed them to use all the resources at the station's disposal while in the area.

At quarter past eight, Sheriff Stilinski finally had a moment to himself. He had a mountain of paperwork on his desk he needed to tackle, but he allowed himself one moment of calm and reflection before he started. The guilt he had been suppressing all day finally bubbled to the surface. He'd actually done it; he had _hit_ his son. Years and years ago (could so much time have passed?), when his wife had been pregnant, they had been cuddling together in bed on a stormy Tuesday night, listening to the wind howl and the rain hit the roof. He had pressed his face to her belly, to see if he could hear the baby's heart beat. He had felt his tiny son moving in her womb, and had promised himself then and there that he would do whatever it took to protect him, to lead and guard his little child in the world, and he promised that he would never raise a hand – or a belt – against his son, like his father had him.

He'd broken that promise – in more ways than one.

He wasn't a good father. Principal Thomas had confirmed as much. He spent too much time at work, and not enough with his son. He wasn't the leader, the provider, the role model, the protector, or the friend he wanted to be for Stiles. He still felt acutely the loss of his wife everyday, and sometimes it hurt him to look at Stiles – god, how he looked more like her with each passing year; they had the same carefree spirit and hazel eyes – and know that he had failed him, had failed her. He wondered what she would say if she was with him now.

Probably she'd reassure him that he was a wonderful father, and he was doing his best. She was always saying things like that. She had had this amazing capacity to encourage and strengthen him. And, for reasons still unknown to himself, she had loved him. Loved him with a conviction and dedication he hadn't known was possible. She had been the best wife and mother any man could ever hope for. He missed her so much. Sometimes the pain was so bad he couldn't breathe.

Sheriff Stilinski closed his blinds, so no one would be able to see into his office. He sat behind his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and extracted a hidden bottle of Scotch whiskey and a glass. He poured smoothly and deliberately, half filling the glass with the golden liquid. He drank it neat, without ice or water, savoring the smoky, earthy taste, and the slight burn as it traveled down his esophagus. He felt the warmth of the alcohol in his stomach. He only wished it would take away the chill that had settled over his heart.

Sheriff Stilinski thought about Stiles, and poured himself another glass. Lately it seemed like if they weren't yelling or making snide comments at each other, they weren't communicating. He wondered if this was an inevitable part of raising a teenager or a reflection of his own parenting. He couldn't remember the last time he and Stiles had just sat down and _talked_ about anything. There was a time when Stiles told him everything. When he would run into the station after-school, flop into a chair, and divulge every single detail about his day. The only way to get him to shut up was to place food in front of him.

Or he'd run around the station, asking a million questions without stopping for a breath, following at his father's heels and getting into everything. Sometimes he could be a nuisance, especially when Sheriff Stilinski was trying to meet with a complainant, and Stiles would badger them for details and information, until he was finally banned from his father's office. But secretly Sheriff Stilinski loved those times, loved having his son there with him, having him be a part of his work; the two most important things in his life together in one room. And people loved Stiles, from the moment they met him. His chest would swell with pride when Stiles held his own against adults, refusing to let them patronize him just because he was young. He was perceptive and bright, precocious and quick-witted. "That's quite a boy you have there," people would say.

"I know," the sheriff would reply with a smile. It pleased him to know that Stiles was his.

He wondered if Stiles realized how proud he was of him: of how determined he was, of his cleverness and fearlessness, of the effort he put into his ideas and how hard he worked to implement his plans. If only he would apply the same energy and intelligence to his studies.

He'd never admit it, but he was secretly impressed by the prank Stiles had pulled that day. It was hilarious and creative, and harmless enough. He hadn't caused any lasting damage – except perhaps to Thomas's pride, but Stilinski could live with that; he felt the man needed to be taken down a couple pegs. And he was proud that Stiles had taken the blame. He knew Scott had been involved – of course he had been; you never saw one of those boys without the other. He was proud that Stiles wasn't a snitch, that he had been loyal, protecting his best friend despite the consequences. (Although, as a father, he also wished Stiles would have saved himself from being suspended.)

He remembered holding Stiles in his arms for the first time. He'd been so small and helpless, this little pink bundle of flesh and toes, his eyes too big for his face, wide and staring curiously. He was growing into a fine young man, despite the sheriff's own colossal parental failures. He had loved him from that very moment, a love bigger and more terrifying than anything he had ever experienced. Even fifteen years later, it scared him that he could love another human being so much.

A tentative knock at the door broke his reverie. Sheriff Stilinski shook his head to clear the liquor-induced fog, and quickly returned his whiskey bottle to its hiding place. "Yes, what is it?"

"There's a call for you, Sheriff. On line two."

"Okay. Thank you, Andrews." _Great,_ he thought, _more work._ "Hello. Sheriff Stilinski speaking."

"It's, uh, Melissa McCall." The woman's voice was familiar, and welcome after the day he'd had. He had always found his son's best friend's mother to be a comforting, soothing sort of person. She reminded him of Claudia that way.

"This is a surprise. What can I do for you?"

"It's, well, it's about Stiles." Sheriff Stilinski's heart sank.

"What is it? What's happened? Where is he?"

"Well Sheriff, that's the problem. We don't know where he is. He's, uh, he's run away."

Sheriff Stilinski asked Scott and Melissa to come down to the station, so he could talk to them in person and get a statement from Scott. While he waited, he had another glass of whiskey to calm his nerves. Now was not the time to lose his cool, not if he wanted to find his son.

 _Runaway? Why would Stiles runaway?_ He was afraid he already knew the answer.

Melissa and Scott arrived within ten minutes. He ushered them into his office, along with Deputy Andrews. "Scott, I want you describe what Stiles was wearing when you last saw him, so we can put out an APB." Scott nodded and began to describe Stiles' clothing and bike. Andrews took notes with a pencil on a pad of paper. Sheriff Stilinski interjected every once in a while to ask questions – was he wearing his helmet? Did he have anything with him? What time did he last see Stiles? Could he be more specific? – or to add further clarification: "I'd say his eyes are more hazel than brown. They're not as dark as Scott's. They're lighter, kind of a mocha color. Did you get all that? Good. Get that APB out straight away."

Andrews nodded and left the room. Scott told the sheriff about the note. "What did it say, exactly? This could be important."

"I-I'm not sure."

"But you're sure he said he was headed for the coast?"

"Yeah. He said he wanted to see the Pacific Ocean."

"Alright," Sheriff Stilinski was a flurry of activity, grabbing things off his desk, rummaging through papers and drawers. "I'm going to head home, see if I can find any more clues. Then I'll head out in my cruiser. Maybe he didn't get too far, or maybe he changed his mind and is heading home. Damn it! Where are my keys?!"

Melissa McCall gently placed her hand on his arm. He hadn't realized he was shaking. She handed him his keys. "We're going to find him," she said.

"I hope you're right. Call me if you hear from him."

"You know we will."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

Stiles lost track of time and distance. He had started out strong, biking at a quick, steady pace. Within half an hour, he had reached town limits. Within an hour, he had passed the farthest point outside of town that he had ever biked: half a dozen miles outside of Beacon Hills. He and Scott had biked out there years ago on a whim. They had wanted to see if they could make it to Sunnydale. It wasn't long before they had gotten bored and tired, and had given up on their scheme and headed home. But he was making better time than his ten-year-old self, and had already covered the same amount of distance in half the time. Of course, this time around he didn't have Scott along with him, stopping him to look at this creek or that salamander, laughing and having a good time.

Running away was a lonely endeavor.

He paused to have a drink from the water bottle he'd refilled at the last gas station. He was feeling pretty good. He knew he could make it through a couple towns before nightfall, giving him plenty of light. He wanted to cover as much ground as possible. Maybe he could even make it to Sunnydale before calling it a night. He had a friend there he'd met at space camp. They hadn't talked in a couple years, but he was sure she'd be willing to put him up for one night. He still had several miles before he crossed the county line, and, he reasoned, when one is running away, it's probably best to get out of one's father's police jurisdiction before stopping for the night.

Stiles had bought a $5.34 map at the gas station. He would have to take care how much money he spent, but the map – and the ham sandwich he had purchased – had seemed necessary at the time. He'd taken a pencil and traced a route from Beacon Hills to Santa Monica – he had decided that would be his final destination. He spread the map across his handlebars and considered his route. Right now, he guessed he was averaging about 15 mph, but he was getting exhausted. He definitely was not made for endurance. His butt was sore, and he had begun to alternate between standing and sitting while pedaling. He figured he could make it another thirty or forty miles to a town twice the size of Beacon Hills. He didn't have enough money for a motel room, but he figured he could handle sleeping one night at a bus station. The rest of the days of his trip would be divided between travelling and panhandling, so he'd have money for food and shelter. He had no doubt people would take pity on him, a pasty small-town boy.

Perhaps he was being overly-optimistic, but he had a long, hard trip in front of him, and plenty of time for reality to set in. He kept on, kept pushing himself, excited at what lie ahead, and already regretful for what he had left behind.

The sun was sinking lower behind the tree line when Stiles' book-bag started ringing. He was on a long stretch of barren road, surrounded by trees. He braked and attempted to twist his torso, so he could unzip his bag while still wearing it, but he couldn't reach. The ringing continued. He shifted the book-bag into his lap, and rummaged inside a small front pocket. A photo of Scott filled his screen. "Hello?" he asked, but Scott had already hung up. "I'd better call him back, in case something's wrong." Stiles started dialing the number, when he noticed the battery icon in the corner of the screen blinking red. 6% it warned. It gave one feeble attempt to connect his call, then died. "No! No!" Stiles whacked the phone against his left hand, trying desperately to beat it back to life.

For the first time since he had left home, Stiles realized the scope of the situation he had put himself in. He currently had no idea where he was, or how far from civilization. He had no way to charge his phone, which meant in an emergency he was stranded. He didn't know the area or the wildlife, and while camping under the stars had seemed like a romantic idea, it suddenly seemed very foolish. He didn't have enough supplies. He was tired and hungry. He had no idea what he was doing.

But he refused to turn back.

He couldn't handle two failures in one day.

He tried to convince himself that he'd be fine, he'd figure it out, but in the waning light of day he was less sure of himself. Darkness was steadily falling, and the shadows around him grew and became eerie, threatening.

He decided his best bet was to keep pushing on. He figured he must be getting close to town. Stiles took a ten-minute break to catch his breath and hydrate. He removed his helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and pushed his bike. He didn't care if walking took more time. His legs felt like jello. There was no way he could continue pedaling.

Stiles walked for half an hour. He could barely push the bike. The road stretched endlessly before him. It was barren and deserted. The sun had disappeared, only faint traces of light painted the horizon. Night had fallen.

Three cars passed him without stopping. He was thankful his father had made him install all necessary reflectors on his bike. He knew the people saw him, saw his hitched thumb, but they continued on their way. He had overestimated human kindness toward teenage boys. Seemed he had been doing a lot of overestimating today.

Another ten minutes passed. The road in front of Stiles brightened in the glare of oncoming headlights. They steadily grew brighter, and Stiles realized the car was slowing down. A 2008 Ford Edge pulled up beside him. It was painted a deep red, but in the dark the color resembled dried blood. The driver rolled down the passenger window and leaned over the console. "Hey, kid. Where are you headed?"

"Santa Monica."

The man laughed. "You still have a long way to go."

"I know."

"It's not safe for a kid your age to be out this time of night. What if someone veered off the road and hit you? Can I drive you someplace?"

"Where are you headed?"

"There's a town about twenty miles north of here. I could take you as far as there."

"Okay."

The man opened the hatchback and stepped out of the car. "We'll put your bike in the trunk here. There's lots of space." Stiles allowed the stranger to lift his bicycle into his vehicle and lay it on its side. "There, all set."

 _Don't do it, Stiles,_ his father's voice was loud in his head. _Hitch-hiking is dangerous. Don't ever do it, especially not alone. Promise me you won't._ Stiles shook his head and climbed into the Ford's passenger seat.

Sheriff Stilinski drove along back roads in his police cruiser. He watched carefully out the windows, checking for signs of his son. He inspected every ditch, sewer pipe, and creek, terrified he'd find Stiles' broken and bloody body. Each time he found one empty, he sighed in relief. But his heart was beginning to falter. He was no closer to finding his son. He clenched Stiles' note in his hand against the steering wheel, his knuckles white from gripping so tightly. "I'm sorry, Stiles," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to make you feel my life would be better without you. I'm so, so sorry." He only hoped he'd be able to apologize face-to-face.

 _ **TBC...**_


	5. Chapter 5: Predator

**Chapter Five: Predator**

When Stiles was in sixth grade, he watched a documentary in science class about natural predators in North America. His teacher, Miss McNulty – a mild-mannered, soft-spoken young woman who always smelled of vanilla, and was possibly Stiles' favorite teacher ever – had been nervous to show them the film, worried that it would scar their impressionable young minds. She didn't want to cause any lasting fear and paranoia of the nature and wildlife she fondly loved.

"Most animals will not attack unless provoked," she insisted, "but we must always be careful and respectful of their environments. The animals called 'predators' are not evil creatures, even though they may seem scary. They were created by nature to be top of the food chain, and what they do they do to live. Their primary goal is survival. Predators are smart; they'll go for the easiest kill possible. They won't engage larger animals they can't easily defeat unless absolutely necessary. We can't think of animals the same way we think of humans. The animal world is much different from the human world. We must always remember this."

Her little spiel meant nothing to his eleven-year old brain. He had just wanted to see some animals maiming and killing each other. He had a healthy fascination with death and blood, like most boys his age. He watched the video enraptured. The footage of the animals made the boring, monotone narration bearable. He grinned at Scott, who was watching from between the gaps in his fingers. Scott had always been kind of squeamish.

They learned about black bears, polar bears, and grizzly bears; about wolves, coyotes, and foxes; about bobcats and cougars; about great white sharks and wolverines; and about badgers. The sharks were cool, with their nasty teeth, chomp, chomp, chomping. He knew all about mountain lions. His dad always warned him to be careful of these giant cats, but Stiles had never understood before their sly methods – the way they stalked and ambushed their prey, leaping out of nowhere. He thought it wondrously devious of them. He loved the canine predators, especially the grey wolves. They weren't as fast as other predators, but they were highly social. They hunted in packs, executing coordinated attacks, surrounding and confusing their prey. He thought their team-work was cooler, and much smarter, than the brute strength and claws of something like the grizzly bear. The animals in the video were all so awesomely aggressive, especially the wolverine – man what a nasty bugger – but his favorite, by far, was the badger. It was, in his mind, the underdog among predators. Badgers may _look_ cute and cuddly, but they were nothing like the friendly creatures found in Narnia with the talking beavers. They were vicious hunters and foragers, and could rip into the ground and murder a mouse with remarkable speed and ability. Sometimes they were taken advantage of by coyotes, who'd run in and grab whatever they had chased out of the ground; that just didn't seem fair to Stiles, but he could relate. People always seemed to be reaping the rewards for his hard work.

"Are there any questions?" Miss McNulty asked. A few students asked for clarification on specific animals. A couple kids asked what they should do if they encountered a mountain lion or a bear, and she dutifully went through lengthy safety tips. One kid asked about crocodiles, and another about aerial predators, like hawks.

Scott raised his hand. "Yes, Scott?"

"What predator are you most afraid of, miss?" Stiles looked from his teacher to his friend, and back again. Boy, what a great question! He watched Miss McNulty's face closely. She was silent a moment, and she gazed out the window. When she finally answered, there was a sadness in her eyes he didn't understand. "The predator that scares me most wasn't in the video, Scott."

"Oh. Because it's from another country?" Images of lions and leopards, hyenas and tigers, king cobras and pythons filled their minds. Stiles thought about the African honey badger, fearless and surprisingly deadly.

"No, it's not that."

"Is it because it's extinct? Like the dinosaurs? T-Rexes are predators, right?" Herbert Winkler asked.

"Velociraptors are cooler," Daniel Nguyen duly informed him.

"Or maybe because it's not an animal at all, but something like a vampire!?"

Miss McNulty smiled and shook her head. "Then what is it?" Stiles asked.

"The predator that scares me most," she said, "is the human being." Twenty-four little voices expressed their surprise and confusion. Ever the teacher, Miss McNulty told them about hunting practices and killing animals for sport. "Animals kill for necessity. Humans kill for pleasure. All that knowledge and technology, and what do we use it for?" The sadness was in her eyes again. "I've never seen the equal to the human capacity for evil," she muttered. She was talking to herself, but Stiles heard every word. She shook her head again, clearing away a memory she didn't share. "Okay, any more questions?"

Lydia Martin asked about plant predators, spawning a whole new lesson, and Stiles lost himself in the beauty of her red hair.

If Stiles thought about Miss McNulty's words again, it was only fleetingly during history lessons on wars involving people long since dead, battles that didn't concern him. The only humans that really interested him were the ones in comic books.

"What are you thinking about?" his mystery driver asked.

"Comic book villains."

The man laughed easily. "What about them?"

"They always want to take over the world, but what's the point in that? Seems like a lot of work, and then you'd have to worry about maintaining leadership and not running the human race into extinction. Why bother? What really _motivates_ them? But, I guess, what else are you going to do if you're a bad guy with world-destroying capabilities? Start a knitting circle? And what makes them evil anyway? Is it the possession of untold power, or is it something inside themselves?"

"That's a good question."

"I've got a million of them."

"But no answers?"

"Nope."

"Can you always tell when someone's a bad guy?"

"Usually. They always have really grotesque characteristics or names that give them away. There's usually a tell or some horrific back-story, or something like that."

"Interesting."

"Yeah."

"My name is Marshall, by the way." The pale light of the waning crescent moon, and twinkling stars in the clear night sky, shone through the windshield. In the moonlight, the glow of the dashboard indicators, and the reflective glare of the headlights, Stiles considered the man's features. He was probably in his early thirties, with neatly cropped dark hair and a high forehead. He had a solid jaw, wide mouth, and defined cheek bones. He had narrow eyes as blue as sapphires, and eyebrows so pointed they looked like they had been drawn on with a marker. The result of this was that his face had the appearance of constantly smirking. But aside from the smug look of his face and the distinctive eyebrows, he was unremarkable. The kind of man you hardly noticed in a crowd, or you met once and soon forgot. "What's your name?"

The guy seemed nice enough, but Stiles was questioning his decision to climb into a stranger's car. He figured he should play it safe – if it wasn't already too late for that – and give him a fake name. "Jackson," he replied, going with the first name that popped into his head.

"Well, Jackie, it's good to know ya."

"Likewise." Marshall took a hand off the wheel and offered it to Stiles. Stiles shook, noting the man's knobby, scarred fingers and surprisingly strong grip.

"So, Santa Monica, huh? Any particular reason you're headed there?"

"I'm gonna work on my tan. I'm so white, my friends have to wear sunglasses to look at me when the sun's out." Stiles extended his arms and considered his skin color, blanched by the ashen moon.

"I dunno, the paleness looks good on you. You have a very fair complexion. Really brings out the contrast with your eyes and hair, and those freckles on your neck. Like a vampire prince or something."

"Uh, thanks."

"So you're going to the coast to work on your tan, but what are you doing out on some back county road at night, on a bicycle? Aren't there better ways to travel? Like bus, for example?"

"Too expensive."

"And you brought the _one_ back-pack for, what, a week's stay, a couple weeks?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"I didn't think school was over for the summer yet. Did the term end early this year?"

"Sort of." Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like Marshall asking him so many questions.

"Oh, I get it."

"What?"

"You're running away, aren't you? That's it exactly! Tsk. Tsk." Marshall wagged a finger in Stiles' direction, He clicked his tongue in disappointment, but he was grinning. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Jack my boy. Once you start running, you never stop. You'll be running for the rest of your life. What's a boy like you got to be running from?"

"I knocked off a jewelry store, and now I'm on the lam."

Marshall laughed. "Robbed a jewelry store, and you're riding a beat-up old bike and hitching rides on the side of the road?"

"I gotta keep a low-profile, don't I?"

"A teenager hitch-hiking at night in central California hardly seems low-profile. If you don't want to tell me, how about I guess? Some pretty little high school girl broke your heart? You got her pregnant, and you've taken off to avoid the responsibilities of parenthood and the wrath of her vengeful father? You failed the tenth grade, and now all your dreams of going to college are doomed, so you've decided to quit while you're ahead, and live as a bum on some nice beach? Am I getting warm?"

"If you consider Antarctica warm."

"Let me try again. What about trouble at home? Yes, I can tell by your face that's it. You've got a wonderfully articulate face. It's very poignant just now, very pleasing to look at. So, trouble at home. Mom and Dad split up and Mom's got a brand new boyfriend she's decided to marry? Or maybe Mommy likes to drink and Daddy likes to hit you?"

"No."

"Who are you running from – Mum or Dad?"

"I'm not running from _anyone_."

"Then from what?"

"My father and I just need some time apart that's all. I'd rather not talk about it."

"Wonderful thing, fathers. Mine was a hard old geezer. Could drink a sailor under the table any day of the week, and twice on Sundays. He was a real strict bastard too. He loved discipline almost as much as he loved booze. Miserable man, my father. What about yours?"

For reasons he couldn't pinpoint, Stiles was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. What had started as a conscious awkwardness was evolving into a disturbed anxiety he couldn't shake. Marshall seemed nice, and he had this open and friendly way of speaking, but something was off. _Stranger danger,_ his father's voice called loudly from childhood memory. _Listen Stiles, I don't want you to be scared of new people, because there are a lot of really great people out there who will want to be your friend, but I want you to be cautious, especially around strangers. Never get into anyone's car or go with them, even if they offer you a puppy. Yes, or even if they offer you a Batman action-figure signed by the Dark Knight himself. Don't give them personal information, like where you live, or when you're home alone. I'm not trying to scare you. I just want you to be smart. If a situation feels wrong or someone creeps you out, get out of there, okay? I don't want anything happening to you. You're a pain in the ass, but you're my pain in the ass. I love you._

Stiles was beginning to think he'd made a grave mistake. He answered truthfully this time, "My dad's a cop. He's sheriff actually. Probably has a whole fleet of squad cars out looking for me right now."

"Does he?" Marshall yawned and stretched his right arm above his head. He settled it on the back of Stiles' head-rest. Stiles could feel the tips of the man's fingers ghosting against the back of his neck. "That's nice. Teenage boys need a strong male figure in their lives. Someone they can depend on. A man's man. Is your father a good man, Jackie? Is he one of those comic book heroes?"

"Yes. He is."

"My father would have been like one of those villains. Didn't have any other reason for destroying my life other than he could." Marshall glanced sideways at him. "But I bet your father is a nice man, if he looks anything like you. Physiognomy and all that. Appearances can reveal truths about personality." Marshall gave him a sickeningly charming smile. "What do you think about that?"

 _If a situation feels wrong, get out of there!_

"Listen, Marshall, thanks for the ride, but I know where I am now and I think I can make it the rest of the way on my own."

"Are you sure? We're still a few miles outside of town. Aren't you worried about mountain lions or coyotes?"

"I can avoid them. They won't bother me if I stick to the road. Besides, they tend to stick to smaller prey; as long as I don't bother them, they won't bother me. I'm probably in more danger sitting in this car."

Marshall smirked, his eyebrows angling wickedly. "Yes, that's likely true."

Stiles cleared his throat and clutched his back-pack to his chest. "So if you could, uh, just let me off somewhere up here, that would be good."

"There's a rest area just up here, with outhouses and picnic tables, that kind of thing. I'll pull in and let you out there."

'Okay, great. Awesome."

They came upon the aforementioned spot a minute later. Marshall pulled in close to the outhouses, parked, and turned off the ignition. His eyes glinted in the darkness, reminding Stiles of cold, hard steel. "I still don't think it's a good idea for you to be out here alone."

"I'll be fine. Scrawny guy like me, not enough meat on my bones to be worth the effort of eating." Marshall chuckled, moving his hand from the head-rest to pat Stiles' thigh.

"It was a real pleasure meeting you, Jackie."

"Yeah, well, thanks for the ride." Stiles tried the handle, but the door wouldn't open. He yanked at it frantically, and pushed the automatic lock button. But the door was closed tight; he couldn't get it open. "Can you let me out?" he asked, trying not to panic.

Marshall leaned over, and Stiles couldn't help but flinch. But Marshall merely pulled the door lock up with his fingers. "It sticks," he explained, "so you have to do it manually."

"Oh. Well, thanks."

Stiles climbed out of the SUV at lightening speed and slammed the door shut. He had walked several paces, when Marshall opened his own door, and called out. "Aren't you forgetting something? Your bike."

"Oh, right." Stiles flushed slightly and returned to the vehicle. He wrapped his arms around himself while Marshall unlocked the hatchback. The wind had picked up, blowing coolly against his exposed skin.

"Are you cold?"

"No. It's alright." He'd dig out his sweater once he was far, far away from this guy. He wasn't going to waste any time doing it now.

Marshall lifted the bike out of his trunk and set it on the ground. Stiles mounted it. He had one foot on the pedals, one foot balancing on the ground, when Marshall's hand suddenly closed around his wrist. He recognized the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, just as the cold metal barrel was pressed against his skin.

 _ **TBC...**_


	6. Chapter 6: Come For You

**Warning: _This chapter contains violent and suggestive material that may not suitable for all readers; this chapter may also contain possible triggers (This final product is NOT at all what I had first intended for this chapter; Marshall just became this unbelievably horrific villain and he took control of the chapter!)_**

* * *

 **Chapter Six: (You Know) I'd Always Come For You**

Sheriff Stilinski had been driving for almost two hours, trying to retrace Stiles' route. He knew he was getting closer. A few miles back, he had talked to an attendant at a gas station who remembered seeing Stiles. He had come in to buy a sandwich and a map of California. He pointed in the direction Stiles had gone, but other than that, could offer no real information. _At least he's eaten,_ Stilinski consoled himself.

Sheriff Stilinski was speeding, trying to make up for lost time. He flashed his lights as a justification, cars pulling over to the curb to let him pass, when he chanced to meet the odd one here or there. The road was pretty deserted.

His cellphone rang. He slowed down and pulled into a rest area. "Stiles?" he asked, flipping his phone open.

"No, it's uh, Deputy Andrews, sir."

"Do you have news about my son?"

"That's why I'm calling. We just got a call from Highway Patrol. One of their officers passed a teenage boy matching Stiles' description. He was getting into a red 2008 Ford Edge about half an hour ago."

"Where was it headed?"

"North towards Sunnydale."

"I'm headed in that direction now."

"Those feds who were here earlier – Pierce and Santiago – they were here when I took the call. They just left, and they said they're headed in your direction. Their perp, Marshall Landry, was last seen driving a vehicle of that description. They think...they think he could be the man who picked up Stiles. Sheriff?" While Andrews was speaking, Sheriff Stilinski had noticed a dark SUV, parked just out of range of his headlights. He opened his door, and approached cautiously, using his shoulder to hold his cell to his ear, and drawing his weapon.

It was a red Ford Edge. A blue bicycle lay discarded behind the back tires.

"Sheriff, are you still there?"

Stilinski swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "I've found it; I found the vehicle." He gave Andrews his coordinates. "Call Pierce. Tell him Landry's on foot...and he has Stiles."

 _ **TeenWolf**_

"Keep walking. Just a little further."

Marshall had a tight grip on Stiles' upper arm, as he conducted him off a well-beaten path and through bushes and brambles. Thorns scratched at Stiles' bare arms, and he stumbled over uneven patches of earth. Stiles' foot caught under a raised root, and he fell forward. He barely had time to thrust his hands out to break his fall. "Get up," Marshall growled, dragging him up by the shirt collar. Stiles winced and looked at his palms. They were caked in dirt, and blood seeped out from a gash on his left hand.

Stiles hadn't spoken a word during this entire time. He was angry at himself for getting into this situation. How often when he was a boy had his father warned him to never talk to strangers? Had he thought that advice no longer applied when he became a teenager? He wished his father was with him now.

 _He'll find me._ Stiles knew his father would be looking for him. He had been foolish to think they needed time apart. His father was the best sheriff in California; he'd come after him, and he'd find him. Stiles just hoped he made it in time to find him alive, and not his butchered corpse.

"Just behind these trees." Marshall began pushing aside branches with his gun hand. Stiles inconspicuously put his fingers in his pocket and hooked his keys. He had been leaving clues for his father to follow - broken branches, shoe prints pressed especially deep in places where the earth was soft. Nothing big enough to grab Marshall's attention. Now, at the edge of their supposed destination, he let his keys drop. He knew his father would recognize them right away.

They were standing on the edge of a creek. A small campsite stood on the other side, complete with tent, fire-pit, folding chairs, Coleman camping grill, coolers and water jugs, and a small wooden fold table. Marshall had even erected a make-shift clothes line between two trees. He must have been living there for quite some time. To an outside observer, the campsite appeared to belong to your typical early summer camper – not whoever the hell this creep was.

The creek was shin-deep. Marshall made him wade through. The cold water bit at his skin and soaked his sneakers. "Sit," he commanded, pushing Stiles onto a large, sideways log laying next to the fire-pit. Marshall rummaged through a bag at the base of the tent, and withdrew a large roll of duct tape.

"I don't think you need that."

"Oh, Jack," Marshall smiled. "You're a funny kid. I like you. Now, put your hands behind your back." Stiles hesitated. Marshall waved his gun in the air listlessly. "Don't try my patience, son." Stiles obeyed. Marshall tucked his gun into his waistband, and crouched behind him. He made Stiles press his palms flat against each other, and wrapped the tape several times around his wrists. Then Marshall moved around to the front and bound Stiles' ankles.

"What are you going to do with me?" Stiles tried to sound brave, but his voice broke.

Marshall smiled his slick, greasy smile again, and bent down over the fire-pit. Within minutes, he had a roaring fire blazing, the logs crackling and emitting sparks as they collapsed. Stiles was glad for the warmth. Marshall sat next to Stiles on the log and started rifling through the boy's bookbag, looking for supplies. "A change of clothes, a couple pairs of socks that probably aren't clean, toothbrush but no toothpaste, or any other hygiene items, an Ipod, no food or matches or plastic containers." Marshall laughed. "How were you expecting to survive, suburban kid like you?"

"Look who's talking. That SUV you were driving is fairly new."

"Yeah, well, this situation is just temporary." Marshall took out Stiles' pillow and sleeping bag, laying them on the ground behind the log. "Looks like you're spending tonight with me. Do you have any money?"

"No."

"Somehow I doubt that." Marshall patted Stiles' pockets, and withdrew a thin wallet. "What's this then?" He dumped Stiles' remaining money into his hand. "Seriously? This is all you have?" He checked the folds of Stiles' wallet. "Not even a credit card?" Marshall pulled the cards out one at a time and tossed them behind him. "Library card. MacDonald's gift card. A movie rewards card. A loyalty card for some video game store. A World of Warcraft gift card. Wait, what's this? Beacon Hills High School?" Marshall held up his student ID. "Well, well. Seems someone lied to me. I don't even think I could pronounce that! What is it, German?"

"Polish."

"Wow." Stiles could hear Marshall trying to shape his tongue around the sounds.

"Everyone calls me Stiles," he confessed. He didn't want his grandfather's name, his last legacy from his dear mother, defiled on the lips of this freak. Marshall smiled and started replacing the items in Stiles' back-pack. When he had finished, he knelt in front of Stiles, and traced his fingers down the side of his face.

Stiles shivered under his touch.

"Stiles Stilinski. It suits you. Much better than 'Jackson.' Whatever made you think of that name?" Stiles shrugged and attempted to shift away from the man.

"What do you want from me?" Stiles repeated his earlier question. "If it's a ransom you want, you can forget it. My father doesn't have any money."

"Oh, my pet, I thought that would have been obvious by now. Maybe I'm not making my intentions clear." Marshall's hands traveled down Stiles' neck and torso, and disappeared inside the boy's shirt. The man's fingers on his bare flesh made his skin crawl. "You're such a nice-looking kid."

"Stop. Please, stop." Stiles was crying now, tears trailing down his cheeks. The last of his bravery was spent, and he felt nothing but fear, raw and painful. Things like this weren't supposed to happen to guys like him – nobodies from small-towns who hadn't even made it to second base with a girl, let alone gone all the way.

Marshall's hands left his chest and cradled his face. He brushed away the tears from under Stiles' eyes with his thumbs. "God, you have such beautiful eyes. They're so expressive. And what a lovely color. Reminds me of milk-chocolate or cinnamon, but more _earthy._ " He stood and walked behind the log. For one fleeting second, Stiles naively hoped the man had decided to leave him alone. But strong hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him down onto the ground. Stiles thrashed and twisted against his bonds, struggling to free himself. Above him, Marshall was undoing his belt.

"It'll be okay. You'll like it. I promise."

Stiles kicked up at Marshall with his feet. He was able to knock the man backwards, and then deliver a painful blow to the pelvic region. Marshall swore. He grabbed Stiles roughly and flipped him onto his stomach. Then he pinned him to the ground, driving his knee into Stiles' spine. He held down Stiles' face with his left hand, smashing his cheek against the hard earth. Stiles wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

Marshall tugged at Stiles' jeans with his right hand, and then reached up to unbutton his own.

The sound of a gun cocking echoed across the clearing. A figure stood thirty feet away from them, splashing through the creek, muck and water filling his standard-issued police boots. "Get. Off. Him. Now." As Sheriff Stilinski advanced, he kept his gun trained on Marshall, aimed right between his eyes. "Let him go, or I'll put a bullet in your brain. And, trust me, I really want to do just that." The look in the sheriff's eyes was murderous.

Tears spilled from Stiles' eyes. He had never been so happy to see anyone in his life. Marshall moved cautiously. He took his knee from Stiles' back, and raised his hands slowly, as though ready to surrender. At the last second, he grabbed the gun tucked into his jeans, and fired. Sheriff Stilinski dove onto dry land, and rolled out of the line of fire. Stiles couldn't tell whether he had dodged the bullet or been hit.

"Dad!"

Marshall grinned cruelly. " _That's_ your father?"

It didn't take Sheriff Stilinski more than three seconds to pull himself up and re-train his gun – but he wasn't fast enough. Marshall grabbed the back of Stiles' shirt and heaved him off the ground. He pressed the boy against his body, his arm locked around the teen's collar bone. He shoved the barrel of his pistol into Stiles' temple. Reflexively, Sheriff Stilinski took two steps forward, toward his son.

"Woah there, Sheriff. Don't move, unless you want me to put a bullet in your little boy's head." Sheriff Stilinski froze. "That's good. Now, throw your gun into those bushes over there. No, wait, throw it into the creek behind you." The sheriff hesitated. If he relinquished his weapon, he'd have a harder time rescuing Stiles. "Do it, Daddy Stilinski. You know I won't hesitate to shoot him."

Sheriff Stilinski tossed his gun behind him. He heard a loud splash as the water claimed it.

"Very good. Why don't you come a little closer so I can get a good look at you? Keep your hands where I can see them!" Stilinski raised his hands and walked forward tentatively. He was only a few yards away now. "That's far enough!" He stopped.

"It's okay, son. It's going to be okay." He stared into Stiles' frightened eyes, communicating all the words he couldn't say. Stiles nodded slightly.

Marshall gave the sheriff one of his creepy smiles. "I guess we know where Stiles got his good looks. What's Mommy Stilinski look like? She must be a total babe, a real Miss America."

"She's dead."

"Oh, that's too bad. No wonder you wanted to run away." Marshall exhaled close to Stiles' ear, making him shudder. "Mommy's sweet little orphan has daddy issues. How quaint. Once upon a time, our brave little prince set out to find adventure in the great big world, only to run right into the jaws of a dragon. He needed Daddy to come save him. And how does our story end, Stiles? Does Daddy save his little prince, or does the monster devour him?"

"Leave him alone!"

"Ohh, looks like I've hit a nerve. Have you read my file, Sheriff?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what kind of party you interrupted, all the fun games I had planned. Imagine your son accepting a ride from someone like _me._ Didn't you teach him not to talk to strangers? Of course you did. I bet he just doesn't listen, does he? Thinks he knows better than his fuddy-duddy old daddy. Bet he gets into a lot of trouble back home, don't you Stiles? Though nothing quite like this, I'm sure. Be honest now, Stiles." Marshall dug his fingernails into Stiles' shoulder. "You're a trouble-maker, aren't you? You're a bad boy?"

"Y-yes," Stiles gulped, choking back the tears in his throat.

Sheriff Stilinski had had enough of these mind games. People could say what they wanted about him, but he wasn't going to let anyone speak to his son that way – especially not some sick, homicidal pervert. If he had any chance whatsoever, he needed to get inside this guy's head. "This isn't about Stiles. This is about _you._ "

"Is that so, _Sheriff_ Daddy?"

"I read your file, _Landry._ Quite the morbid psychological profile. Mother walked out on you when you were twelve. You had a difficult time making friends, because you moved around a lot. Your father was a military man. And a drinker who knew how to use a belt. Didn't matter how much you tiptoed around him. The littlest thing set him off, and you were always in his way. You were always the target of his rage. So you ran away from home at sixteen, but social services found you, and they put you right back into that home, didn't they? But you couldn't take it anymore. You killed him, your own father. Too bad patricide is illegal in every state."

"The bastard deserved it."

"Maybe he deserved the first few stabs. But 147? That's overkill, if you ask me. Delusions of grandeur. Hedonistic killings. It's all very sexually gratifying for you, isn't it? Daddy didn't hug you enough when you were a child? Oh, cry me a river." As he spoke, Sheriff Stilinski gained ground inch by inch, slowly closing the gap between him and his son.

"What else did those bastards from Washington tell you?"

"Why don't you ask us yourself?" Agent Pierce appeared from the treeline behind the campsite, his partner Santiago from the edge of the clearing. They were both flanked by several police officers. "Drop your weapon, and release the boy."

"In that order?"

"Drop your weapon!" Santiago reiterated.

"But we were having such a nice chat. Weren't we, Stiles?" In his narcissistic glee, Marshall was overestimating his control of the situation; he thought he was the puppet-master, able to manipulate them because he was holding Stiles hostage. His arrogance would make him careless. Any moment now he'd slip up and let his guard down. Sheriff Stilinski knew his chance was coming; he just had to watch and wait. "Weren't we having a nice chat?" Marshall kissed the top of Stiles' ear, grinning savagely at Sheriff Stilinski as he did.

He was going to murder the bastard.

"Y-y-yes."

"And if all these silly cops, with their tin badges and pea-shooters, just left us alone, then we could go back to having fun. Don't you want them all to leave so we can go back to playing? Tell your daddy that you want him to leave; tell him you're a big boy, and you can do what you want; tell him you _don't need him_ anymore."

"I-I-don't-"

" _Tell him._ " He pushed the gun harder against Stiles' head, eliciting a pained whimper that gave him a pleasurable, sadistic thrill.

"It's okay, son," Sheriff Stilinski held his son's gaze, and nodded. _Do what he says._

"I-I want you to leave," Stiles wept. "Go away. I don't need you." Marshall whispered something in his ear. "I-I was a naughty boy for running away, and M-Marshall's going to s-show me what happens to misbehaved boys."

"You see? The kid knows what he wants. A boy's gotta grow up and leave his father." Marshall gestured flippantly in the sheriff's direction with his gun as he spoke. It was now or never _._ The instant the pistol left Stiles' head, Sheriff Stilinski made his move. He charged at Marshall and tackled him, sending both criminal and hostage sprawling to the ground. He pushed Stiles out of harm's way, and grappled with Marshall for the gun. He was able to knock it out of his hand, and Stiles kicked it out of the man's reach. Marshall got in a few hits, his fists connecting with Stilinski's mouth and jaw, splitting his lip open, but in hand-to-hand combat he was the lesser opponent.

Santiago ran to Stiles; she dragged him back from the scuffle. He protested, trying to go to his father's aid. But it wasn't Sheriff Stilinski who needed help. The two men wrestled, rolling along the damp ground, punches flying. Marshall clawed at the sheriff's face, but Stilinski was the better fighter. Soon he was on top of Marshall. His fists a mad blur, pummeling the man beneath him. One hit after another. The sound of flesh connecting with flesh was loud and sickening. His knuckles were starting to bruise, the man below him slowly becoming a whimpering mess of saliva, blood, and mucus. He was going to beat this sicko to death.

Marshall turned his head and coughed out a few teeth. He laughed. "My father hit harder than you," he croaked. "Bring Stiles over here, and I'll show you how it's done." The sheriff's hands locked around Marshall's windpipe. A dark shadow possessed his face. He squeezed with all his might. Underneath him, Marshall was turning a ghastly purple color, his eyes bulging. He could not utter any sound as he fought for air. "Sheriff Stilinski stop!" Pierce yelled. "That's enough! Sheriff!" The agent tried to pull him off Marshall, but the sheriff was unmovable. He focused all his weight into crushing Marshall. He was going to make sure this man never touched his son again.

"Dad!"

Stiles' voice broke through Sheriff Stilinski's infuriated trance. Stilinski removed his hands from Marshall's throat and allowed Pierce and the other officers to take over. He went to Stiles, who was propped up against the log. The fire's glow cast shadows across his face. He looked pale and terrified. Stilinski knelt down beside him and began to tear the tape off his ankles.

"You were very brave, Stiles. You kept your head, and even though you were scared, you didn't panic. You did good. I followed your trail through the woods. Dropping your keys was a stroke of genius." Stiles watched his father's delicate movements, his long fingers tender and dexterous. He had his father's hands.

"Thanks." Once Stiles' ankles were free, the sheriff moved onto his wrists. He was exceptionally gentle, careful not to rip skin with tape. "I couldn't let you kill him," Stiles said softly; it was easier to speak when he couldn't see his father's face. "It would have changed you. Maybe not right away, but you would have lived with that darkness inside you forever. Even if he's a monster, he's still human. Part of me wanted you to strangle him; I _wanted_ you to kill him. I've never felt such a savage desire to hurt another person. It scared me. It felt so evil. I don't want to be that person. We can't give into the hatred, the violence. Once we do it's always there. We're no better than him."

Sheriff Stilinski removed the last of the tape residue from his son's wrists, and moved in front of him so he could see his face. Stiles let his arms hang limply in his lap. He took one of his son's hands in both of his own, and massaged his wrist with his thumb. "When did you get to be so wise?"

"Just good breeding, I guess."

Stiles looked full into his father's face. Sheriff Stilinski wiped the last tears from his eyes and smiled sadly. Then he grabbed his son in a hug, crushing Stiles against his warm body with his strong, protective arms. Stiles clutched at the back of his father's jacket and buried his face in the nape of his neck. In the safety of his father's loving embrace, Stiles released the sobs that had been building all afternoon. His father held him close and rubbed his back. This, Stiles knew, was the only touch of his father's he need ever remember.

 **TBC...**


	7. Chapter 7: Leave Out All the Rest

**Chapter Seven: Leave Out all the Rest**

Stiles shivered, though whether because of cold or memory he couldn't tell. His skin was covered in goose pimples, and he hugged himself. He could still feel Marshall's fingers on him, his acrid breath in his ear. "You're freezing," his father noted, shrugging out of his sheriff's jacket. He draped it across Stiles' shoulders. Stiles pulled the jacket tighter around himself, inhaling his father's earthy scent: coffee and stale sweat, with a hint of ink and aftershave. Robust, to match the man. "How's the hand?"

"It's alright." The cut on Stiles' palm had looked worse than it was. His father had washed away the dirt and blood with water from one of the jugs, and had wrapped Stiles' hand with a blue handkerchief he kept in his pocket. Stiles had always teased him about carrying a handkerchief, claiming it made him seem like an old man - "What is this 1955? Next you'll be telling me about the good ole days before the Internet, when the only entertainment you had was a ball and two sticks." His father would defend the piece of cloth's usefulness. Stiles guessed he was finally seeing it's purported value firsthand. Another one for the list of things he'd been wrong about.

They made their way back to the cruiser by flashlight. Thin clouds had covered the moon, obscuring the already meager light. Stiles could see traces of the trail he'd left, trampled beneath the boots of the police officers. He could discern which prints were his father's – size eleven, the heel sunken in deeper than the rest of the foot; he walked heavily on the balls of his feet. And he could tell which were his own – smaller and narrower, the recognizable treads of Chuck Taylors. His father's footprints walked directly beside his all the way to the clearing.

The rest area was crowded with police vehicles. The flashing blue and red lights made everything look surreal. Officers were standing around with notepads and bags of evidence, cameras hanging around their necks, guns holstered at their sides. Stiles had watched them photograph the campsite. The _crime scene_. Stiles imagined yellow police tape roping off a chalk outline in his shape.

Pierce had taken Marshall into custody; they were probably halfway to the station by now. Santiago had stayed behind to take his statement, gently prodding him for information. She was kind and spoke softly, like he was a little child. He felt like a child, helpless and vulnerable – but less innocent somehow. Stiles looked over her shoulder while he answered her questions, watching as his father stooped low to pick his wallet and cards off the ground. The sheriff lingered on his student ID, running his fingers over Stiles' photo. Then he picked up his pillow, and tucked it under his arm. He knew Stiles couldn't sleep without it. He rolled up the sleeping bag, and tossed it into the fire. Stiles watched the flames rise and engulf the material, reducing it to nothing more than flakes of ash. He wished he could do the same thing to this entire day: burn it from existence. "Okay, Stiles, I think we're done." Santiago gave him a small smile, and turned to see what he was looking at behind her. "Sheriff Stilinski, you can take your son home now."

The sheriff came over and placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Will he have to testify?" he asked. This idea – that he might have to stand in front of a courtroom of strangers, in front of Marshall himself, and tell everyone what Marshall had tried to do to him – had never crossed Stiles' mind. He just wanted to go home and forget this day had ever happened. A trial would drag this ordeal out for months; he'd never be free of Marshall. His entire life would become defined by this one night.

"I can't say yet." Santiago looked at Stiles kindly. "We should have enough evidence and testimony to prosecute Marshall without Stiles, but it's still a possibility. It depends on what the attorneys bring up in court, how Marshall pleads. Unfortunately, these things are never as straightforward as they should be. If it was required, would you be willing to testify, Stiles?"

He didn't want to think about it. It made him nauseous to imagine himself seated in front of a courtroom full of strangers, their eyes watching him, judging the validity of his words. Marshall's eyes on him, that smug smile on his lips. But could he afford not to testify? He had heard about cases from his father in which a lack of witness testimony had led to more lenient sentences, criminals being set free. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let Marshall hurt anyone else. If this was what he had to do, he would do it. Marshall needed to pay for what he'd done.

Stiles nodded. Sheriff Stilinski put an arm around his son's shoulders. "He won't have to do this alone."

Santiago smiled. "You're a good father, Sheriff Stilinski. I hope you realize that." She put a gentle hand on Stiles' arm. "No matter what happens; or what you feel about what happened, about yourself; no matter what you hear; I want you to remember something Stiles. You are _not_ a victim. You're _not_ a victim. You're a survivor, and you're a fighter. You're strong. And you have a father who loves you more than anything in the world. You're not alone. You're never alone. Take care of yourself."

When they got into the police cruiser, Sheriff Stilinski turned over the ignition and jacked up the heat. They were quiet for a long time, a pregnant silence, heavy with the feelings they couldn't express, the words stuck on their tongues. Neither knew what to say, where to begin. Stiles wondered what his father was thinking – what he thought about him.

"I-" he started.

"Th-" his father said at the same time.

"You go first."

"They kept your bike, for evidence or something, I guess. I tried to get it back, but they wouldn't let me have it."

"Oh. That sucks." Now he had no means of transportation, unless he walked everywhere, which sounded horribly unpleasant and tedious.

"I was thinking, Mac Egan has a jeep for sale at a decent price. A blue 1980 CJ-5. Mileage isn't great, and it needs a bit of work, but it's a sturdy vehicle. If you passed your driver's test this summer, I might consider getting it for you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. But you'd have to be careful, and you'd have to abide by my rules, and listen to what I tell you. And I had better never catch you speeding or driving recklessly. This isn't a freebie. I expect you to get your grades up, even if that means summer school. And, I hope you realize, you're still grounded."

"I kind of figured."

"Yeah, well, sometimes it feels like you don't listen to me anymore."

 _Here it comes,_ Stiles thought – _the lecture. None of this would have happened if I'd just listened to him, if I had stayed home like he ordered, if I had had enough sense not to get into a car with a stranger._ He looked out the window, but it was too dark to see anything, but his own reflection in the dark glass. He realized he was crying again. _You're a bad boy, aren't you Stiles? Tell your daddy to leave, and I'll show you what happens to misbehaved boys. You'll never want to cause trouble again._ The sight of his own face disgusted him. He looked at his father, who was staring at him. Something about his face looked odd. "What?"

It took him a moment to realize his father was crying. Silent tears dripped from the corners of his eyes. Stiles had only seen his father cry twice – the day his mother had been diagnosed and the day she died. Stiles hadn't understood the words the doctors tossed around about atrophy and brain tissue and dementia, but he had known it wasn't good. He remembered sneaking downstairs when his parents thought he was in bed. His mother had been sitting in a kitchen chair, his father was on his knees in front of her, his face buried in her lap. Stiles knew he was crying because of the sound: loud, painful sobs that made his shoulders tremble. His mother rubbed his back, and in the dim light vehemently professed her love for her two beautiful strong men. It had terrified Stiles to see his father so broken. He had run back to his room and hid under his covers.

The day his mother died, the tears were different. Stiles had held her hand when she died, and when it was over, the nurses had shooed him from the room. He'd sat on a bench, waiting for his father. When his dad arrived, he had knelt in front of him, and gathered him in a hug. Stiles had wept into his father's shirt and cried incoherent sentences, trying to make sense of his loss. His father's mourning was silent; Stiles felt, but didn't hear, the tears that dripped from his father's eyes into his hair.

The sudden waterworks were unexpected and disturbing. Stiles was startled and freaked out. For the second time that day, he didn't know how to react to his father's unusual emotional outburst. "Dad, I'm sorry. I promise I'll listen, and I'll be better behaved. I'm so sorry. Please don't cry."

Sheriff Stilinski choked on a sob. He was crying harder now, great sobs that shook his large frame, snot dripping from his nose like tears. He had to pull over to the curb and park the car. Stiles tentatively laid a hand on his father's back. Sheriff Stilinski reached over the seats and grabbed him in a bone-crushing hug. It was awkward, with the gearshift sticking into their bellies, and the space between them making it harder to reach. There was something urgent in the way his father hugged him, like he wanted to do it as often as possible, suddenly fearfully realizing he had almost lost the chance to do so.

"It's okay, Dad. Please don't cry. I'll listen, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please believe how sorry I am." His father mumbled something he couldn't make out. "What?"

Sheriff Stilinski pulled back, and wiped at his runny nose with his sleeve. He scoffed at his own overt show of emotion. "God, Stiles," he said. "Don't you realize how much I love you?"

Stiles had no idea how to respond to this question.

"For someone so smart, sometimes you can be dense."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's real loving."

"Look, you know I didn't mean it like that, it's just, Jesus, Stiles, I'm not good with words, how am I supposed to say this to you? I know we're not perfect, and I know we butt heads a lot, especially now that you're a teenager-"

"Dad, I-"

"Don't interrupt, okay? Just let me talk. I know we don't always see eye to eye, and I'm not always there when you need me. I know I lose my temper, and sometimes I expect too much from you. I know I'm not perfect. In fact, sometimes I'm a pretty poor excuse for a father." Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but Sheriff Stilinski silenced him with a motion of his hand. "I should never have hit you. No matter how shitty my day is, no matter how stressed I am or what cases I'm dealing with, no matter what obnoxious stunt you pull, there is never a good enough excuse for me to strike you. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. I promise I will never raise my hand against you again."

"Dad-"

"It's not easy raising you on my own. I work all the time, and sometimes you slip through the cracks. I worry if you're getting enough to eat and if you're wearing clean clothes. I worry that maybe the house isn't clean, and what you need is a feminine touch or a woman's perspective. I miss your mother, and there are days when it hurts just as badly as the day she died. She was always the patient and understanding one. If she was alive, you never would have run away. This afternoon she would have sat us both down, and we'd have had a long talk, gotten everything out in the open. She wouldn't have let us leave until we worked everything out. If she was here, the idea that you were a burden or unwanted, or whatever the hell it is you thought, would never have crossed your mind." The sheriff swallowed and paused a moment to collect himself. "You are _the most_ important thing in my life. I love you so much, it scares me. I live in this constant state of worry that I'm failing you, or that I'm going to lose you like I did your mother. And I couldn't handle that Stiles. If anything happened to you, I'd die. I would have nothing left to live for if I lost you. And if you thought that I felt anything other than love for you, if even for a second you thought I didn't want you, god, I'm even an bigger failure than I thought. Tonight was the single most terrifying night of my life. Knowing how close _he_ came to..." Sheriff Stilinski clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into the calloused skin of his palms. "I'm going to try harder, Stiles. I'll do better." His father looked at him again, and in his pale green eyes, Stiles could see the intensity of a love his father struggled to express. "I love you."

There was so much Stiles wanted to say, but couldn't. "I love you too, Dad."

Sheriff Stilinski reached over the console again, and took his son's hand in his own. He pressed it to his lips, and smiled. "You haven't let me hold your hand since you were about six years old, and you told me you were old enough to cross the street without my help." Using his free hand, Sheriff Stilinski started the car, merged back onto the road, and steered, holding Stiles' hand in his own. Keeping him there beside him. He was determined not to let go until they were safely home. "Don't ever leave me again. You know, at least until you're done growing up. If the time comes and you're unemployed at thirty and drinking beer and playing video games in my basement, then you'll be welcome to get the hell out."

Stiles smiled. "I won't, Dad. I won't run away again." Come what may, no matter how terrifying or difficult, Stiles promised himself that he would never again abandon the ones he loved. He would stay, and he would deal with whatever they faced.

"And I want you to feel you can tell me anything, okay? You can always talk to me."

"I know."

"Good." They were quiet a moment. A ghost of a smile stayed on the sheriff's lips. Every once in a while, he rubbed his thumb back and forth across the back of Stiles' hand. It was a small gesture, but it comforted Stiles immensely. In his mind, he pictured his mother's gentle hands, stroking his forehead when he was sick, and rubbing his father's back as he cried into her lap.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"You know you're my hero, right, and despite what Marshall said, I do still need you? And not just cause you saved me tonight, or cause you're a cop, or cause you keep a roof over my head. You've always been my hero, and nothing could change that, not a homicidal maniac or an ignorant high school principal. I know I can always count on you. Not everyone can say that about their dads. I'm going to do better, be better. Make you worry less. And I'll keep the pranks under control."

"You'll stop playing practical jokes?"

"No, of course not, I'm just going to make sure I don't get caught."

Sheriff Stilinski laughed. "I guess I wouldn't want it any other way." They were quiet again. Stiles was getting too warm, so he turned down the heat, and turned on the radio. The faint sounds of some indie rock band filled the car, crooning poetic lullabies to quiet his soul. "So, Santa Monica, huh?" his father asked.

"Yeah."

"Why there?"

"I wanted to see the ocean I guess, the way it just goes on for miles and miles, and you stand on the beach and the ocean just stretches out before you and you feel so small. I saw some brochures in a gas station, and Santa Monica looked like a nice resort city, right on the water. There were all these pictures of beaches and piers, palm trees and avenues with shops and museums. It seemed exciting I guess."

"I know you didn't get to go this trip-"

"Which is probably for the best. Now I just want to go home-"

"But maybe sometime, you and I can take a vacation up that way. I have loads of vacation days saved up. It's about time I used them and spent some time getting to know my son again. Do you think you'd like that?"

"Yeah, I would. It's been a long time since you and I had a holiday together, or since we did anything at all together really."

"Far too long."

"I was thinking, since I'm suspended for the next two weeks, and grounded, maybe I could spend my time at the station with you. Maybe help you with some cases, or filing, or something like that. Who knows, maybe I'll find something that interests me. I heard you had some animal attacks you were worried about. Maybe I could take a look. I've always been interested in natural predators. Would that be okay?"

"Yeah. I'd actually really like that, Stiles. I'd like that a lot."

"Okay," Stiles smiled, and relaxed into his seat. "Sounds good."

Driving home, his father's presence warm and strong beside him, Stiles felt he could overcome anything, even the horrors of the night he'd had. With love and patience, and a good measure of sarcasm and good humor, he and his dad could get through anything. Every day, they were surviving. They were a testament to life after loss. Whatever came, he knew his father would be there by his side, strong and dependable.

Stiles could feel himself drifting off to sleep. He knew he was safe with his father there beside him. They had survived; they could make it through anything. The worst was behind them. Or so he thought.

 **END**

* * *

 ** _Author's Note: I hope the previous chapter didn't scare you off, and you continued to read until the end. Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and faved. I can't express how much your support means to me. I hope you enjoyed the fic, and my testament to the amazing father-son relationship between Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski. (Definitely my favorite relationship in the show. Seriously, best thing ever.)_**

 ** _Thanks again for your continued support. You are very lovely readers._**

 ** _~NoTimetoStop_**


	8. 2 Years Later: Sequel Lead-In

**_Check out the lead-in to the upcoming sequel to "Runaway," starring a new-and-improved Marshall Landry, with tons more blood and violence._**

* * *

 **Two Years Later**

"First time, huh?" Correctional Officer Bud Newman asked, shaking a single cigarette out of a package of Marlboros and shoving it between his teeth. He cupped his hand against the wind to shield his lighter and lit up. His current partner, a young rookie by the name of Riggs, watched him skeptically.

"What do you mean?"

Bud took a long drag and exhaled, Smoke poured from his mouth and dispersed in the warm summer air. Despite the heavy cloud-cover, it was still at least 70 degrees. Riggs wondered if the smoke felt hot in Bud's mouth or if he was used to the heat, maybe even relished it. He reminded Riggs of the old dragons he had read about in story-books when he was a kid. "I mean, is this your first time transporting a death-row inmate?"

"No, sir."

Bud glanced at the young man: his lush dark hair combed and gelled back from his face, his dark guard's uniform perfectly ironed, not a wrinkle in sight. "Really? 'Cause you're clutching that goddamn rifle tighter than a god-fearing Pentecostal girl clings to her virginity on prom night."

"I'm just nervous."

"What's there to be nervous about? You been around the block a few times. You've done this before. Hell, son, if you've got a nervous disposition this was one stupid career move."

Riggs bristled under the criticism. "This guy is different. I've heard things. Rumors. This guy is sick. He's already killed three other inmates."

"Good riddance, if you ask me. Decrease the scum population."

"It's not just that he killed them." Riggs lowered his voice, as though speaking the words aloud would curse him with their reality. "He drank their _blood._ And he killed a nurse too. Cut her head clean off and set her corpse on fire. That's what finally got him the death penalty." Riggs' eyebrows creased sadly. "Plus he raped and killed all those young boys. At least a dozen, that they know of."

"Worried about him penetrating your snug little ass?"

"No! I just...I'm trying to-" Riggs groped for the right words. He didn't understand how Bud could be so calm about all of this, how he could actually make jokes about something so horrid. He didn't have enough experience yet to know that the only way to protect yourself from the stories, the crimes, the horrors was to desensitize yourself, to grow a skin so thick and hard nothing bothered or surprised you.

"Nevermind. Here he comes." Bud stamped out the remainder of his cigarette.

Three guards led out the prisoner. He was unearthly pale, as though he had never been exposed to sunshine in his life. His skin was smooth and unblemished, stretched tight across a strong jaw and high forehead. His eyes were hard as steel and so blue as to look almost transparent, like a thin layer of ice. His eyes traveled the length of Riggs' body and he smiled. A wide, toothy grin that made the young man's skin crawl.

"Watch him," one of the guards cautioned, loading the prisoner into the back of a sheriff's van and shackling him tightly. "He's tricky. I don't envy you."

Once they were settled, Riggs and Bud stationed across from the man, guns laid across their knees, Bud tapped the side of the van, signalling for the driver to start on their way. They rode fifteen minutes in silence, Riggs eyes roving this way and that, trying not to meet the gaze of the man watching him. Bud was a statue at his side - quiet and unmoving, unflinching - already dreaming of his next cigarette.

"What's your name?"

Riggs didn't answer.

"My name is Marshall. What's your name?"

Riggs looked to Bud for support. "Leave the kid alone, hey."

"I was just wondering about his name." Marshall smiled. "Such intimate pieces of ourselves condensed into a handful of letters. Rather amazing, when you think about it. I could guess if that makes it easier. I bet it's a real American name, huh? Troy or Tyler. Maybe Andrew. Justin? Ryan? Anthony? Dylan? Am I getting warmer?"

"Alex," Riggs confessed.

"Yes," Marshall sighed in satisfaction. "I thought it would be something like that. A good strong name for a handsome boy. How old are you? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?"

"Twenty-three."

"Hm. A little old for my tastes, but you have a delightfully boyish face."

Riggs shifted uncomfortably. Bud's nose twisted in repulsion. "Alright. That's enough. Leave him alone."

"Look, now I've embarrassed you," Marshall continued addressing Riggs, ignoring the red anger appearing in blotches along Bud's neck, savoring the flush painting Riggs' cheeks. "Your heart is beating terribly fast. I can hear it, pounding, pulsing the blood through your veins."

"Can it, creep, or I'll kill you myself right now."

"You wouldn't deny a condemned man his last meal, would you?" Marshall leaned forward, holding out his wrists, chains clanking. His mock frown curled up into a devilish smile, his teeth unnaturally white and sharp, gleaming in the dim light. "Unlock these cuffs there, partner, and I'll let you have first go at him."

"That's it!" Bud's calm demeanor cracked, and he lunged at the criminal, determined to beat the man to within an inch of his life. This was, of course, exactly what Marshall had wanted - power, mastery; to get under Bud's thick skin and break him.

It happened so quickly. Bud charged Marshall, slamming the butt of his rifle into the man's face. At the same instant, Marshall pounced, breaking free of his chains and grabbing Bud's head in his hands. Riggs raised his gun and fired, the sound thundering in the small space, just as Marshall twisted Bud's head back, breaking his neck and tossing his lifeless body to the floor.

The bullets lodged themselves into Marshall's chest - deep, gaping, gruesome holes - but no blood surged forth. No pain. Marshall smiled and ran a finger along one wound. "Hope that doesn't leave a scar," he chuckled.

Riggs was too stunned to move. Marshall raised his head, his face suddenly monstrous and hungry, that smug smile on his lips, his bottomless eyes locked on the young guard. Riggs lifted his gun to shoot again. The driver slammed the breaks, sending him careening forward.

Before the scream had fully formed in Riggs' throat, Marshall was upon him, teeth tearing at the fair flesh of his slender neck. Blood splattered the walls of the van. Riggs grunted and gurgled uselessly for help that would never come. The driver struggled to open the doors, the van trembling under the force of the struggling within.

The horrifying sight that greeted the driver's eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life.

All remaining thirty seconds of it.

Marshall tenderly traced his long, pale fingers down the jawline of the dark-haired corpse at his feet. His lips, red and slick, pulled into a gleeful smile. He was ready now - better, faster, stronger. Free. The games he had played before were nothing compared to what he had planned now. What fun he was going to have, what a party.

And at the top of his guest list, a name in bold red letters: "Stiles Stilinski."

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**

* * *

 **Posted July 3rd: "The One that Got Away," the supernatural and thrilling sequel to "Runaway." How will Stiles survive this new danger?**


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